Thirty days: 30 paintings, 30 poems

In November 2011, six months after Jeff died and still consumed with grief, I decided to pour that energy into a 30-day exercise of writing a poem each day.

The poet, David Lehman, wrote a poem every day for a year and collected some of those poems in his book, The Daily Mirror.  In the introduction, he noted how it was 'hit or miss', some poems falling flat and some days were complete misses. I'd read those poems a few years ago and found the concept intriguing.

I'm not a prolific poet, I tend to wait for inspiration; the sudden poetic phrase or line.  It doesn't happen often. By that November, I'd written a dozen  poems about Jeff, his death, my grief, increasing my poetic batting average and  I figured there might be another 30 poems wallowing inside me.

It took a couple of nights to realize I would not be receiving divine inspiration every day.  I don't know that I ever did.  I learned to find inspiration; facing the blank page and grabbing an idea out of the air.

I met that first challenge completing 30 poems in 30 days.  Two poems were almost really good.  Another four had potential.  Ten others worth salvaging and the rest would be filed away.  Not a bad effort for a poet.

The following November, I took the challenge again.  I had moved to my native Iowa and it was my first winter in nearly 30 years.  I was enamored of the quiet, the bitter cold, the life and death of seasons, and many of those poems are inspired by Iowa's beautiful but unforgiving winter landscape.

As a seasoned poem-a-day poet, I knew what to expect.  I didn't fret nights when I had nothing.  I would open my notebook, rummage around in my head and start writing.  I had about the same results as the previous year.

I'd written 60 poems in two years (not counting any written the other months) and of those 60 poems, four have been published.  I'm a poet, not a mathematician, but it seems like a good average.

One of those published poems, 'In A Hopper Painting', became the inspiration for this year's November ekphrastic exercise in poetic masochism.  I love the regional realistm of Edward Hopper and in his six decades as an artist, he left an extensive body of work.  I would write 30 poems, each inspired by his paintings.

It has been the most difficult of the challenges.  I read essays on his works.  I spent hours thumbing through books of his collected works.  I read his weighty biography.  I discovered  little-known works; works not typical of Hopper.  His paintings offered an unfinished narrative, a poetic leap. I avoided more linear interpretations and sought out an emotional landing.  Some paintings veered toward a more personal experience.

'Nighthawks' is not my favorite Hopper painting, but as the month closes, I realize it is the most fitting finish to this exercise.

Tonight, in the quiet dark, I'll sit down, open my notebook, stare at the lonely creatures gathered at the counter and imagine how it all will end.

Shivering is just another part of Iowa

It's unseasonably cold in the Big Woods with afternoon temps never getting above 18 degrees and it's expected the thermometer will dip to zero tonight.

Shivering is truly another facet of Iowa.  So is starkness.  I'm grateful to have a poet's sensibilities which allow me to look at the frozen ponds, the oak and walnut trees wind-stripped and now in deep prayer as they wait for spring.

I drive past fields harvested to brittle, broken stalks where farmers let their cattle forage for bits of seed corn and silage.

I counted three bald eagles circling the nearly iced-over Maquoketa River today, hoping to snag a fish come up from the deeper waters.  On the fence posts, hawks watch the ditches for the quiet movement of a vole or rabbit among the burst cattails and milkweed.

As a poet, all my senses ride shotgun; the wind howling down the river valley, the dusty smell of old barn board, the frigid blast of bitter cold when I take the dogs out at four a.m., the crisp chill of the well water from the tap, the sudden glimpse of a snowy owl vigilant in a tree on my way home from work today.

The dark arrives early these days, and it does seem like my day is shorter, that time has run out and I'll have to begin another day in mere hours.  But here in the Big Woods, it means the stars come out sooner, and against the clear, cold black sky, shine so brightly they steal my breath.

Let winter come.  I will find new words for it.

Popcorn Elitist

It is a blustery, misted day here in northeast Iowa, with rain and thunderstorms anticipated for the afternoon.  I woke up with one thought for my day: I'm going to make popcorn and watch 'The Hours'.

There are a handful of movies I watch over and over; 'The Hours' is one of those, but it requires a rainy, moody atmosphere to make my experience truly complete.  And it needs to happen in autumn.

But this is about popcorn.

I love popcorn.  I love making popcorn.  My freezer is never without popping corn.  I have eaten popcorn for a meal.  I do not need a movie as an excuse to make popcorn.  Microwave popcorn is the devil; it costs more, it's tasteless, and it's toxic and probably contains beaver anal glands.

I'm a traditionalist.  Popcorn should involve a stovetop, a pan of oil, and a vigilant popper.  And white popcorn, not yellow.  White popping corn has smaller kernels; use yellow popcorn only if your threading it for a Christmas garland.  Better yet, try black popping corn; the kernels are smaller, they don't get stuck in your teeth, and the flavor is an incredibly nutty, wild taste.

We all like salted popcorn, and most like buttered popcorn,. I actually don't care for butter on my popcorn.  Years ago, I started trying different seasonings on my popcorn; taco meat seasoning, a little shredded cheddar or sprinkle it with Hidden Valley ranch dressing mix.  One of my favorite popcorn blends is sea salt, pepper and shredded Parmesan cheese.

Still, this is really about the pan.  A popcorn pan is a dedicated pan, used for no other cooking (my popcorn bowl is nearly as sacred).  I've had two popcorn pans in my adult life, both purchased at thrift stores.

My current pan has been used for more than 20 years.  It is a superb popcorn pan; deeper than the average pan (it was the bottom of a double-boiler, the lid salvaged from another pan). It's light-weight with a long handle, perfect for standing over the pan and shaking it for better popcorn.  My  popcorn pan remains on the stovetop, just as might leave a teakettle standing, ready for use.  The outside is blackened from dripped oil (I don't wash it often, only wiping the inside with a paper towel before I use it) and the bottom has warped from the heat so it tilts precariously on the burner.  If I take the lid off, the pan tips over when empty.  I know it is time to let it go.


Last weekend, I stopped at one of my favorite thrift stores in the little town of Hopkinton, or Hoptown as the natives call it.  It's a mission store and if you're visiting, I'm sure to drag you to Hoptown for the experience of a Saturday morning in the Not-So-Tiny House Mission Store.  In housewares I spied a likely replacement for my old popcorn pan.  It was the right size, not as deep as the old one.  The lid was ill-fitting, but that's okay on a popcorn pan.  Best of all, it was one dollar.  In the sorting room of the thrift store, I know there is a stove and I asked if I could test out the pan.  I stood at the stove, felt the pan's weight in my hand, skated it over the burner, rotated the handle as if I were dumping popped corn.  I happily shelled out a dollar.

I'm not quite ready to let go of my faithful popcorn pan; it's like saying goodbye to your first car.  I popped innumerable bowls of popcorn for Jeff and I during our 21 years together.  I've made my gourmet-flavored popcorn for friends to savor while we watched a movie.  My dog, Joey, loves popcorn and knows the sounds of the pan being readied and he waits patiently at the stove for me to finish, then he sits at my feet in the living room and I toss kernels to him and he catches them in midair.

For now, I'll work with my warped and charred old pan, and hope it's replacement serves as admirably.

Don't Just Survive.

 Claim your space.  Draw a circle of light around it.  Push back against the dark.  

Don't just survive. Celebrate. ~ Charles Frazier

This week, a high school classmate died suddenly of a stroke.

Tom was 52, exactly 11 days older than me.  Statistically, his death should not be a big surprise.  One out of every 234 people will die between the ages of 45-54 and one in 97 of us will die between the ages of 55-64. 

We graduated in 1979 from Denver High School, in Denver, Iowa.  There were 97 of us and our class was nicknamed 'The Biggest and The Best'.  To date, we remain the largest graduating class from Denver High. 

We're a close-knit class; anybody who went to school in a small town understands this.  It's not that you remained tight with your classmates, but you know everyone of them by name even 35 years later.

Thanks to Facebook, many of us have reconnected and remain in contact.

Tom and I had been friends in high school; we both lived on the blacktop outside of town and I would er bike to his house on Saturdays to hang out.  We'd spoken briefly at our 20-year reunion; a warm exchange, a quick sharing of our lives after graduation, and that was it until news of his death this week.

Nothing makes one consider your own mortality more than the unexpected death of a peer.  I do not feel as though I am just surviving this life, although at times, it is just that, surviving.  It's what we do.   

But we shouldn't forget to wonder.  To consider even a gray and bruised sky beautiful.  To stop and listen to the wind grab the last oak leaves.  To stop for art and music and dance and poetry.  To drowse in the late afternoon sun.  To love our family and friends.  And for heaven's sake, laugh.  And often.

Godspeed, Tom.  The Class of '79 is just a little smaller now.

Roadkill Poetry

Each morning, before sunrise, I drive the nine miles into Manchester for work.  These are country roads, and I meet few other cars at 5:30.  It is not other drivers I'm concerned about these days; it is the sudden appearance of deer.

Though I see deer all year in the Big Woods, they are more visible in late fall when the fields have been harvested, fields full of dropped seed corn.  The deer also make their way into the our yards for the grass now that other tender eats have suffered a freeze.


I see a lot of deer.  Last January, I counted 20 head in the field outside my front windows, and for much of the month, they would cross that field heading up or down river.  One afternoon, just after our first snowfall, I took the dogs out for a walk and four deer cut across the driveway, not 20 feet from us.  Two days ago, I had my closest call while driving to work.  I saw the deer dart out of the ditch ahead of me and had just enough time to hit the brakes before the second deer bolted out, missing my car by just a couple feet.

I see plenty of roadkill all year in my drive to and from work.  Raccoons, opossums, farm cats, hawks, Canadian geese.  A large red-tail fox was hit earlier in September and I can still see the traces of red fur on the side of the road.

Roadkill is just another part of living in the Big Woods, and though I hate seeing a fox, or hawk, or barn cat (and please don't let me see someone's dog), but the sight of a struck deer is particularly unsettling.

Deer are large, with a weight between 110-300 pounds.  Hitting one with your car at 55mph will not only kill the deer, but damage your vehicle.  This time of year, I encounter one or two dead deer on my route to Manchester every week.  I hate seeing these beautiful creatures splayed along the roadside; there is always a twinge of sadness.

Last November, a doe was struck in an area I often see them crossing.  On one side of the road is woodland, the other side is a large cornfield.  Her positioning in death was oddly elegant, especially in the cold, autumn sun.  I could not let her beauty, even in death, go without words.